


ran down the end

by irrelevant



Category: One Piece
Genre: Gen, Marines, Time Skips, Where There's Smoke, Will of D
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-16
Updated: 2011-08-16
Packaged: 2017-10-22 17:05:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/240383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irrelevant/pseuds/irrelevant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>marine fic set during the time skip, Smoker-centric gen.  it's also -- if you squint, turn sideways and want to see it -- very weird one-sided, after the fact, never was Smoker/Ace.  because I am just that fucked up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	ran down the end

**Author's Note:**

> written before we got canon for the timeskip. jossed to hell and back of course but it was fun while it lasted.

He put his cigars out maybe a minute ago and he’s already lighting a new pair. His mouth is too empty. His hands need something to do.

Smoking is his crutch; he acknowledged that a long time ago, admitted to himself that he’s never going to quit, and moved on. There are worse habits to have and this is one he can live with. Maybe the only one.

He flicks his lighter open and watches flame spring up. Bends down and it flares and crackles, eating into tobacco, the smell strong and familiar, old in the middle of too many newer, less familiar things.

He hollows his cheeks, drawing familiarity into his mouth. Puffs once, keeping an eye on Kuzan’s slack face – the only other familiar thing in the room – through white haze made thicker and whiter by the dust from ongoing construction.

Sawdust and powdered stone are turning Kuzan’s hair white almost as quickly as his ice would. They’re everywhere here, in everything. In the air; in any food left standing for more than a few seconds. Turning desalinated water more bitter than it already is. Getting into every crack and sill and room, even the ones not being repaired.

Kuzan’s office isn’t one of the lucky ones. Every surface is covered in fine powder; another wave of it sifts down from the ceiling as Smoker watches, sprinkling Kuzan’s head and stupid sleep mask.

Kuzan doesn’t even twitch, which doesn’t surprise him. He’s seen him sleep most of the way through a sea battle before. It takes a lot more than a few dust particles to get his attention when he’s out of it, just like—

He snaps the memory off at the neck. Snaps his lighter shut and Kuzan opens his eyes as lazily as he does everything else.

He blinks at Smoker once, then he picks up where the conversation left off. “You’re sure this is the post you want.”

“Yes.” He’s said it twice. Doesn’t see the point in saying anything else. Friend or not, he’s already said more than he should to the man who’ll probably be the next fleet admiral.

From the scaffolding outside creaks and shouts and curses drift through along with a new wave of dust, filling the air. Filling in his silence. Kuzan’s mouth curves slightly.

“So energetic, these young sailors. It’s exhausting to hear.”

“Good thing you’re not going to G-5, then.”

“I don’t agree, you know. It’s a waste of your abilities. But if you want it…” Kuzan shrugs, his chair creaking beneath him. “We need people in the New World we can trust with this new age coming down on us. Sengoku won’t have a problem with that. How long before you can sail?”

Three weeks ago he would have said immediately. But he has men in the infirmary and the memory of a kid’s unconscious haki; the echo of him screaming about waste and death and injustice is still reverberating through his mind. He still believes justice exists. He’s just not sure it exists here anymore.

“Two weeks,” he says, and leaves it at that.

Kuzan covers his yawn with his hand. “Just as well. Sakazuki may be ready to move on by then.”

Smoker takes his cigars out of his mouth. He doesn’t want a mouthful of tobacco and he’s too close to chewing through. “I didn’t know he’d gone over.”

“He thought Straw Hat might have.” Kuzan waves his hand at the newspaper on his desk. “That should change his mind.”

He bites back down on the cigars and draws in. Has to let the smoke go completely before he can make himself stop grinding his teeth.

“You’d better muzzle your pit bull before he takes a bite out of something even you can’t freeze,” he says when he’s sure his voice will come out something like normal. “Dragon won’t stand aside and let him kill his son. There’s going to be backlash somewhere.”

“Like there was when you left Loguetown?” There’s a breath of white rising from Kuzan’s desk. It’s not dust. The paper under his hands glitters. “He’s not mine.”

“He is now. Or he will be as soon as Kong clears it.” Smoker leans forward, crushing his cigars out not even half smoked. He knows he’ll just light two more up in a few minutes, but it doesn’t seem to matter.

He starts to reach for his jitte. Remembers and clenches his teeth again, and so much for not mattering. He’s on his feet anyway, hands useless and open until he shoves them into, balls them up in his pockets. And he’s looking across at Kuzan and Kuzan’s looking back; it could be anything from amusement to anger on his face.

Smoker thinks it’s somewhere in between. Hina once told him he has that effect on people. “He’s got six years’ experience on you,” he says. “Borsalino has almost ten. There’s a damned good reason you’re first in line, Kuzan. Don’t fuck this up.”

He can’t read Kuzan’s face – he doubts anyone can when he doesn’t want to be read – but his shoulders shake slightly. “I’ll try to live up to your expectations,” he says and stands, holding out his hand.

Smoker crosses the room, taking it and gripping tight. “You’ll do what you want, same as you always do,” he says as he lets go. “You haven’t changed much.”

Kuzan’s mask moves up his forehead with his eyebrows. “And you have?”

Rhetorical questions are Kuzan’s speed, not his. He doesn’t waste his time answering. He steps back, pushing his hands back into his pockets and wishing for the solid weight of his jitte against his shoulder. Failing that he’ll settle for a new pair of cigars, but Kuzan is still watching him and he’s lit up in front of him one too many times this afternoon.

“Youngest fleet admiral in two hundred years,” he says instead. “You’ll have hell’s own time cleaning up Sengoku’s mess.”

“And you’ll have Teach.” Kuzan’s mouth twitches. “You still haven’t mastered busoshoku yet, have you? And your seastone is in pieces.”

He can feel his lip wanting to curl and he locks it down, tightening his mouth. Crocodile was right, damn him. Sometimes _he’s_ too close to being a mad dog. “Someone else you want to watch, there. Hancock was protecting Straw Hat.”

It’s almost a frown; that little shake out must’ve ruffled more than just the feathers on Sengoku’s gull. “We can’t afford a war with the Kuja right now.”

“Can you afford one with Straw Hat?”

Kuzan looks past him, squinting a little like he’s trying to make something out. Smoker’s back is to them but he knows there’s nothing to see through the half-repaired windows but scaffolding, construction, and not too far off in the distance, the sea.

“Not in lives,” Kuzan murmurs. “Not now. The bell could have been a challenge. Most of the white hall thinks so.”

“The white hall’s collective head is most of the way up its ass. The navy may have fought him but it doesn’t know a damned thing about that kid,” Smoker retorts. “Straw Hat doesn’t kill if he can help it, but we killed his brother. Too many islands on the Grand Line owe him. Red Hair would probably back him. What’s left of Whitebeard’s crew would. You let the white hall morons push it, you’ll see another war, one that won’t end so fast.”

He knows Kuzan well enough to expect the non sequitur. “Garp’s back. He wants to talk to you.”

So do a lot of other people. Most of them are determined, if not happy about it. Doesn’t mean he’s going to talk to them, but Garp is… Garp.

Closest thing the navy still has to living justice.

“He say what he wants?”

Kuzan comes out from behind his desk and leans against it, hands tucked in his pockets. “No.”

“Guess I’ll find out.” Even the short walk across the room kicks up a cloud of dust. His smoke rises without thought, beating it down. Kuzan’s voice stops him before he gets to the door.

“This organization is still the best chance ordinary citizens have for protection. And justice.”

He could keep walking. He almost does, but the pattern of dusty boot tracks on polished wood catches his eye: workmen, seamen, officers. Mostly marine issue; this is a marine installation. There are other types recognizable, though, and no telling drag of chain links.

Kuzan is his own lazy brand of loose cannon and Smoker respects him enough for truth. His version of it, anyway.

“That wasn’t justice,” he says. “It was politics on top of a lot of stupidity from people who should have known better.”

He’s not expecting much, if anything; Kuzan gives him silence. But since it’s Kuzan on the other end of it, silence is good enough for him.

He doesn’t close the door behind him. There’s no door left to close.

\--

The pile on his desk is up past his waist. It’s probably time to burn it again.

Burn. Torch. Flame. The associations are as predictable as they are inadvertent. He turns his back on overflowing paper and walks to the porthole, automatically reaching for his cigars.

Calm blue sea, clear blue sky. It’s been clear every day since that one, cloudless skies and perfect weather. Like something or someone wants to whitewash the aftermath of a short, ugly war that in the long run will accomplish exactly nothing.

They say it’s the beginning a new age. From where he’s standing it doesn’t look much different from the old one.

He lights his cigars in the few steps it takes him to reach the port. “Tashigi!”

He doesn’t wait for her to come to him. Meets her amidships, rushing toward him. Waits while she trips on her sword, while she rights herself and fumbles for her glasses. Wonders if she’ll ever get out of the habit of pushing them up then forgetting they’re there.

Some of him wishes she would. More of him hopes she doesn’t.

Change is annoying. Unreliable. And half-assed and unpredictable as well, most of the time. Sometimes he thinks the only reason he’s chased Straw Hat halfway around the world is to kick his ass for making him come after him in the first place.

“Sir?” Tashigi’s finally located her glasses where they always are. She pushes them into place and blinks at him from behind them.

“Going ashore,” he says. “Not sure when I’ll be back. If Hina contacts you, tell her she can try to change my mind after the memorial.”

“Aye, sir.”

At least she’s stopped saluting. He stops walking after only a few steps. “Tashigi.”

“Sir?”

He hesitates for the second time today, not something he’s used to. But she’s his second, not his personal assistant, and he can clean up his own messes, paperwork included. “Forget it. Carry on.”

\--

Like him, Garp prefers his own ship to the BOQ. The officer on deck salutes and points Smoker in the direction of the forward deck and Smoker throws his half-smoked cigars over the gunwale as he walks. He lights a new pair on the way up the steps.

The old man runs a tight ship. No lazy justice here, just gleaming wood, polished brass and nervous seamen. Garp himself is the only thing out of place on his otherwise pristine foredeck, legs folded under him, the skirts of his coat spread out around him in a white half circle.

Steam rises from the cup in his hands, is twisted around then thrown out by the wind in all directions. Smells like tea leaves; strong and bitter and almost as black as black coffee.

“Took you long enough,” Garp says after a huge swallow.

Smoker pauses a few feet behind him. Blows a slow cloud out to blend with dissipating steam. “Didn’t know there was a time limit. I didn’t receive any orders.”

Garp sets his cup down with a bang. “You wouldn’t have paid them any mind if you had.” His laughter is as canine as his ship’s figurehead: short, coughing barks. “Insubordinate punk. Always were.”

Smoker leans against the mast and watches him get to his feet. He’s moving a lot slower than Smoker remembers. But even the navy’s hero has to get old sometime, and his grandkid hits hard.

Garp leaves his cup in the middle of the deck and shoves his hands in his pockets. Looks at the sea instead of Smoker. “World’s full of mouthy punks these days. Always questioning orders, never doing what you tell them to.”

“If you’re looking for sympathy, find someone who hasn’t read your file.”

“Ha! Not the sealed one you haven’t.”

“Don’t count on it,” Smoker says, and Garp starts laughing.

He laughs long and hard, half bent over, slapping his knee and snorting. “Mouthy punk, yeah you are,” he says, still laughing. “That’s why I picked you. I figure a punk can handle a punk and I’ve got two that need handling. Couple of idiots who couldn’t find their asses with both hands when I took ‘em on, but they’re learning. I want you to take them with you to G-5.”

Smoker doesn’t bother asking how Garp knows about the transfer; the bastard always knows everything. And Kuzan’s probably been telling tales out of school.

He blows another cloud of smoke at the back of Garp’s head. “Take them yourself. Beating the shit out of green kids is your department, not mine.”

Garp hacks up another laugh and straightens, turning his gaze back out to sea. “Yeah, it is. And I’ve been training them. But I’m old now. Used up. No good to anyone anymore. Didn’t you hear? They’re putting me out to pasture.”

Smoker snorts around his cigars. “I heard that was your call. You’ll outlive the rest of us. They’ll have to stake you to put you down.”

“Damn it, show some respect! I’m still your superior officer.” He drops the feeble act as fast as he picked it up and stops staring at the ocean in favor of glaring at Smoker.

“I’m going back home to stay for a while.” Abrupt as always. “Those brats of mine need to get stronger and they can’t do that sitting on their asses in East Blue. So you take them to the New World. Punch them into shape.” He jabs a finger at Smoker. “Have that ensign of yours make ‘em cry for their mamas every day of the week.

“Anyway,” and he’s turning away again, “I don’t have time to baby-sit. I’ve got other obligations just now.”

There’s just enough there to paint Smoker a picture he doesn’t want or need to see. He doesn’t need or want to know any more than he already does.

He didn’t know the kid. Only read his full dossier after Nanohana, which didn’t tell him much more than hearsay already had. A bare bones outline and one fight don’t amount to much intel.

He already knew Portgas was loyal to his captain. Knew he was probably someone he couldn’t take down in a fair fight. The only thing he learned in Nanohana was that Portgas had a brother he’d most likely walk straight into the ocean for if he thought he could keep him safe by doing it.

He was a pirate. He knew what he was getting into when he raised his sail, and he was old enough to take the consequences. He took his chances and lost. That’s not why he died, though, and the real reason tastes as bad going down now as it did the first time.

Three weeks ago a pirate was executed. Roger’s son was killed. And Garp lost kin.

All of that’s true and Smoker is smoke, not stone. “I’ll take them,” he says.

Garp grunts. It might even be a laugh. “Damn straight. Now get the fuck off my ship.”

\--

“It’s mostly alloy. I could rework it, meld it back together, but”—the armorer raises half of the jitte, squinting down the shaft—“structural integrity’s compromised.” He shakes his head and looks up at Smoker. “It wouldn’t last long.”

“A new one.” But the armorer is shaking his head again.

“There’s nothing like it in reserve.”

There wouldn’t be. He had it made to spec. Carried it for fifteen goddamn years before Hancock put her haki-enforced heel down. “Got someone around here who knows how to make them?”

“Oh aye.” Half laugh, half incredulity. “I do. If I’d time enough I could build you anything you wanted.”

Smoker lights a new pair of cigars just to get the smell of oil and gun powder out of his nostrils and throat. He’s had enough of both to last him. “You’ve got two weeks.”

The armorer folds his arms over his chest and looks speculatively at the jitte lying in pieces on his anvil. “Tricky. But I might could. If I had the materials.” He nods at it. “I’d reuse the seastone if it wasn’t cracked. It’s not easy to come by.”

“You’ll get it.”

A real laugh this time. “And you’ll get your weapon, Commodore. I’ve a fancy to know something of mine’s making life hard on those New World bastards.”

“If I make it there first.”

“You’ll make it,” the armorer says. “Coming back’s the hard part.”

“Hadn’t given it much thought. Two weeks,” Smoker repeats, and leaves.

\--

It doesn’t come as a surprise that Garp’s punks aren’t punks so much as they are rookies. It does surprise him a little that one of them is the kid who stalled Sakazuki long enough for Red Hair to end a war.

It shocks the hell out of him that the first thing out of the kid’s mouth is, “Commodore Smoker, sir. Is Luffy-san all right?”

Tashigi blinks. The blond with the shades starts flailing and babbling. Smoker says, “How the hell should I know?” and the kid turns a bright red that looks weird with all that pink hair.

He says, “I don’t—that is, Ensign Tashigi said you—”

“Shut up,” Smoker says, cutting off what promises to be a load of unmitigated idiocy. Maybe Garp was right about the punk thing. “You too,” he tells the blond, who immediately shuts his mouth and jerks to attention.

“Knock that off,” Smoker growls. “I’m not your vice admiral.”

The blond kid stares at the floor. The other one looks like he wants to cry. “Damn that old man to hell,” Smoker says. “I’m killing him slowly.”

“He sailed this morning,” Tashigi informs him.

“I can wait.”

Arms crossed, he leans against his desk and examines his unwanted legacy. Pink hair’s teeth and fists are clenched. The blond kid is shaking, but he’s still on his feet facing Smoker. “Vice Admiral Garp is a great man!”

“He’s Luffy-san’s grandfather!”

“We—we will not allow you to harm him,” they shout in unison.

“Slowly,” Smoker growls. “And by that I mean days, not hours.” They both jump when he pushes away from the desk. Two steps are all he needs and then he’s leaning into pink hair’s airspace. “Unfortunately, you morons are now assigned to me. Believe that I will have that assignment revoked at the earliest possible opportunity. Until then you’re mine, and we’re all screwed. Report to Ensign Tashigi at this ship, tomorrow, nine-hundred.”

He steps back, hitting both of them with his frown. “And don’t ask me any more stupid questions. Are we clear?”

“Sir, yes sir!”

“Good.” He half turns, leaning back down over his desk to get a pair of cigars out of the drawer. Puts them in his mouth and straightens up, pulling out his lighter and glancing back over his shoulder as he does. Tashigi is gone but Garp’s brats are still standing at attention. “Why are you idiots still here? Beat it. And don’t salute, damn it!”

They argue all the way to the gangway. Probably down it as well, but by then they’re too far away for him to hear. Sometimes small mercies are the best.

Smoker lays his cigars in the ash tray and sits down behind his desk. Props his feet on it and rests his head against the chair back. He needs to get someone in here to clean; the stains on the deckhead have grown. He shuts his eyes so he doesn’t have to look at them and thinks about Garp getting eaten by a sea king.

No, that doesn’t work. The son of a bitch would just chew his way out. Probably complain about how twenty years ago sea kings weren’t so puny and tasted better, too, afterward. Figures that the guy’s family is currently busy turning the world inside out.

He puts his cigars back in his mouth and watches the smoke rise. It’s not much consolation, but if he starts smoking three any time soon, at least he’ll know who to blame.

\--

He lost twenty-one good marines that day, seven women, fourteen men, but that’s not why he goes. He’s written his letters, sent their personal effects to their families. Stood and watched while their ashes were scattered over the bay.

Made as much peace as he can with loss he once again failed to prevent.

He doesn’t feel any need to attend official memorials; he doesn’t believe his people need or want that from him. Hina’s going, though, and he told her he’d make an effort to be there.

Told her he’d play nice for one day. One.

Arms crossed, he stands back from and slightly behind her chair on the raised deck and scans the crowd on the green, more out of habit than curiosity. Kuzan isn’t here, which is about what he expected. Borsalino is, and that’s a surprise. But he’s a hard man to predict and Smoker’s never been interested enough to try.

Sakazuki wouldn’t have been anywhere near here even if he wasn’t in the New World. If Smoker could change places with anyone right now—

“Do you have any enamel left on your teeth? Hina wonders,” she murmurs.

“I did this morning but I might not tonight if I have to listen to morons mouthing condescending, sanctimonious bullshit much longer.”

“Astonished, Smoker-kun. Hina’s astonished.” He catches the edge of her smirk. “And you don’t. It’s over.”

She’s right. No one’s been yakking into the PA for a few minutes now. Sengoku just stepped down from the platform and the massed crowd of white and blue is starting to disperse.

Smoker stays where he is. Lights his cigars while he waits for Hina to give orders to her two idiot lackeys then follows her down to ground level, trailing in her wake of snapping heels and fatuous expressions.

“Don’t you get tired of that?”

The arc of her hand says any number of things, all of them derisive. “Tired of what?”

“Forget it.” She raises an eyebrow at him over the cigarillo she’s lighting. “Stupid question anyway,” he mutters.

The end of the cigarillo burns red as she sucks in. “This _is_ you.” She smiles like poisoned honey.

He says, “Get some new insults,” and she curls her lip and they walk down together through the ruined town, smoking and silent, weaving around and through groups of carpenters and masons toward what’s left of the docks.

They stop just above what used to be the upper retaining wall; the bay is still a ruin of rubble and waste; crews are working to clear it but it’s still not safe for ships to dock. The east and west piers are crowded almost past what they can take.

Smoker props his hip against a sharp jut of stone and watches workmen, marine and civilian, working together to shift the remains of a cannon. “They still planning on moving HQ?”

Smoke slides out of her mouth in slow spirals. “You have Aokiji’s ear.”

“Didn’t ask him.”

Her laugh is short and subtle. Barely there. “They’re moving it to the other side of the Red Line. I considered asking for reassignment, but since you’re going… Hina reconsidered. There’d be nothing left over for me. Smoker-kun guards his justice jealously.”

He doesn’t laugh, but he might smile. If there weren’t cigars in his mouth. He shifts them to the other side of his mouth, glances at her profile. She’s still one of the most beautiful women he’s ever seen. And one of the most contrary pains in the ass he’s ever met.

“That it?” he says finally. He’s tired of waiting for the other shoe to drop.

She raises her eyebrows and blows a stream of smoke his way. He blows a cloud back. Stream and cloud meet in the middle distance, mingle briefly and are gone, whipped away by the wind.

“Hina would ask you to make sense if Hina thought you could.”

Smoker watches her warily. It would be stupid not to. “You’re not going to try to talk me out of it.”

Her shrug is a masterpiece of carefully contrived unstudied elegance. Too bad Smoker’s the only one around to see it. Her idiots would be swooning.

“You made it through the war in one piece.” She raises the cigarillo to her red, smirking lips. “Hina satisfied.”

“Damned if I am,” he snorts, and she laughs at him then, but that’s nothing new. She’s been laughing at him since she was eight and he was ten and girls were either stupid or the enemy unless they were Hina, because if you called her stupid she’d kick your ass, and even then Smoker was smart enough to realize she wasn’t someone he wanted for an enemy. That much hasn’t changed—he still is and she still isn’t.

Flicking the rest of her cigarillo into the rubble, she turns and walks over to him, hands in her pockets.

“Too close for regulations,” he says, and she laughs again. Leans in even closer and kisses his cheek.

Her mouth is cool and slightly waxy with lipstick. “It’s time to grow up, Smoker-kun,” she murmurs, her lips moving against his skin. He’s going to have red marks all over the place, and it’s no satisfaction that she’s gone before he can swat her off, smiling at him from a safe distance.

He growls, “Knock it off,” and he’d add a few other things, but she’s already walking away.

Damned woman likes getting the last word in more than he does. He stays long enough to move the pieces of the cannon below with his smoke, but not long enough to hear the workers’ thanks before he follows her.

\--

Tashigi brings the new dispatches to him out on the forecastle, probably in the hopes that if she leaves them there instead of on his desk he’ll actually read them. He stops her before she leaves. “Ensign.”

“Sir?”

He doesn’t like it. Never has. But they’re headed for the New World and he can’t afford to ignore anything that might give her an edge. “Those kids,” he says. “They’ve had some rokushiki training. The pink one can probably give you the basics. If you can handle it—”

“I can handle anything you need me to, sir. What is—” she’s frowning, maybe trying to get it straight before she says it— “Rokushiki?”

His mouth doesn’t like the way the word tastes any more now than it did twenty years ago when they tried to recruit him. “Accelerated martial arts style. CP9 uses it.”

Her eyes widen in recognition and something uncomfortably close to fascination. “Yes, I’ve heard of it. It can be incorporated into various swords styles, I believe.”

Of course that would be her first concern. He turns his head, looking down at the rookies sparring below so she won’t see his mouth twitch. “Get as much theory as you can from the kid. There should be at least one practitioner on G-5, someone who can give you the science.”

Down below pink hair does something that sends shades flying. He hits the bulkhead and lands in a heap on the deck. A few seconds later he’s up and shouting at pink hair while the other kid makes half apologetic, half pissed off noises. Eventually they stop yapping at each other and square off again.

Tashigi leans forward, pushing her glasses absently up as she watches, intent on their movements. “Rokushiki. I wonder…”

Smoker thinks about rokushiki and sword blades and all the easily broken parts on a ship. He wonders if a year of chasing Straw Hat has finally made him as crazy as that stupid rubber brat.

\--

The armorer must have had it delivered because it’s leaning against the wall of his cabin, looking like it was never gone.

He lifts it, hefts it, getting a feel for the balance. The armorer knows his business—the weight distribution is exact. The detailing is the same, down to the dark red wrap around the hilt. If he slid it into the loop on his jacket it would go in clean.

If he didn’t know better he’d say it’s the same weapon. But he does know better.

Overall it’s an impressive piece of workmanship. A good weapon. The last line of defense against other devil fruit users. It’s all of those things, but what he sees—

He holds it out, tip down, pointed at the deck. The hilt feels made for his hand. And it’s just one more crutch.

He’s not sure he wants to live with that.

\--

He told Hina not to come see him off, and she doesn’t. Probably wouldn’t have even if he hadn’t said anything. He said the same thing to Kuzan but Kuzan only hears what he feels like hearing. “You got the package?” he says.

Smoker says, “I don’t care what Kostov’s excuse is, just find the right chart and get it squared away, we’re casting off in twenty,” to the quartermaster before he turns his displeasure Kuzan’s way. “You mean that new pile of paper on my desk? I just got rid of the old one.”

Kuzan pulls his mask down and slouches deeper into Smoker’s chair. “I know,” he murmurs. “I saw the flames from my office.”

Smoker snarls, deciding that the next person who comes up the steps with a problem is getting white-snaked over the side. Only, the next person is Tashigi and she’s actually saying something he wants to hear.

“All hands accounted for, sir, and navigation says the, er, problem has been corrected.”

Finally. “Give the order to cast off,” he says, and looks down at Kuzan. “Get off if you’re not coming with.”

Kuzan lifts the corner of his mask with his thumb. He looks like he’s thinking about it. Then he yawns and says, “I’m too tired to decide right now. Can you wait until tomorrow?”

Figures. “Get your icy ass off my ship.”

People think ice is a weird power for a guy like Kuzan; Smoker doesn’t agree. Ice is lazy in its own way. Slow to build, slow to move, but eventually you’ve got the iceberg your ship just ran into and before you know it you’re on the bottom of the ocean.

Kuzan moves a lot like his ice, slow and subtle and surprising, and then he’s across the deck standing beside Smoker at the gunwale with his hands in his pockets, watching the frenetic activity below. Yawning and frowning at something over Smoker’s shoulder.

“What?” Smoker says.

“I thought you talked Lee Bobo into making you a new jitte.”

“I’m not going to ask how you know.”

Kuzan’s smile is just like the rest of him: slow moving, hard to pin down, and only around when you don’t want it. “People tell me things.”

“They say things around you when they think you’re asleep. There’s a difference.” A whistle blows shrilly and the ship shudders as the gangway is pulled free. “Stay or go, figure it out.” But ice is already fountaining up, carrying Kuzan with it.

“Read the files,” he says, hovering over Smoker on a glittering breath of frozen cold. “They’re private, not official.” He shrugs. “Or don’t. You might be better off not knowing.”

His ice carries him to the dock, soft enough to melt behind him, leaving clumps of dissolving slush on the deck. Annoying, yes, but cleaning it up will give the rookies something to do, at least.

“Oi,” Smoker calls. Kuzan turns, looking up at him. “You ever give Straw Hat that message?”

Kuzan looks thoughtful. “I don’t think so.” His forehead wrinkles around the edges of the mask. “Does it matter?”

Typical Kuzan. “Probably not,” Smoker says. “It was stupid.”

“See, now, that’s what I told him,” Kuzan says and, one hand raised in a careless wave, wanders away.

\--

Coffee tastes the same no matter where it’s drunk. He understands that on a conscious level even if some part of his brain is sure it tastes better when he’s out on open water. The rest of him just enjoys knowing he’s enjoying it out here while everything that annoys him about the navy in specific and life in general is off doing stupid things where he doesn’t have to see or deal with them.

Coffee without annoyance is a luxury you can’t pay for, and you can never be sure when you’ll get a chance at it. You can tip the odds in your favor by adjusting several controllable factors—proximity of other people for one—but random factors add up quickly, especially on the Grand Line. And while coffee without annoyance is more of a sure thing when you’re alone, you can enjoy it with someone else if they can keep their mouth shut long enough for you to finish your cup.

Some people are safer bets than others. He fills the second cup when he hears Tashigi coming up the steps. Says, “Deal with that damned bird before it craps on something, will you?”

“Certainly, sir.”

He ignores the amusement in her voice, keeping an eye on the activity down on the lower deck until the news coo is gone and she hands him the paper.

“That’s yours if you want it.” He jerks his chin at the other coffee cup but she doesn’t sit down. Stands in front of him, hands clasped behind her back.

Smoker lowers the paper, looking at her over the top. “Something on your mind, Ensign?”

She’s staring at a point somewhere over his head: classic military technique. Stand at parade rest, stare straight ahead avoiding your commanding officer’s eyes at all times. Answer sir, yes sir if at all possible, and when you can’t do that, dodge the trick question like it’s a grenade.

Only difference is, Tashigi’s the one with questions Smoker probably won’t want to answer.

“It’s the Straw Hats, sir.”

Probably gets upgraded to definitely. Smoker raises the paper again. “What about them?”

“I was just wondering, sir,” she says. He chances a look at her. She’s still staring at that point over his head like her life depends on it. And maybe it does. “What happens when we catch them?”

When, not if. Well, one of them ought to be sure. Better for morale if it’s Tashigi. “We’ll have caught them,” he says.

The faint lines on her forehead are the only sign of her frustration. “Then what, sir?”

He stops hiding behind the paper. Lowers it, folds it and tosses it on the table; reaches for his lighter since coffee without annoyance is looking like a lost cause. “They’ll have been caught. We’ll have done our duty,” he says and bites down on a new pair of cigars.

Waits for her to put the emphasis on the right word.

Tashigi is a sharp woman. He’s still in the process of lighting up when she says, “Oh!”

He looks at her over the flame and she meets his eyes for the first time since she climbed the steps. She’s a fine officer; he didn’t catch her until she was ready to be caught.

“I… see, sir,” she says. He draws in a mouthful of smoke and snaps his lighter shut.

“Figured you would,” he says, and picks the paper back up. Tashigi pulls the other chair out, sits down and reaches for her cup.

Coffee without annoyance on open water sets the morning down easy in the rest of the day.

\--

Even using government routes it takes a week and a half to reach G-5. Smoker spends most of his time sparring with Tashigi and Ennis, the ship’s mate, swatting the rookies around a couple of times a day and sifting through the mess on his desk for any intel worthy of the name.

Eventually he gives up on the last and starts in on Aokiji’s files. They make for more interesting and definitely more enlightening reading and by the time they dock he feels like he’s beginning to get a handle on the situation on this side of the Red Line. If he can just keep from getting hamstrung by what passes for marine authority in the New World, he might be able to spend more time hauling pirates in than ignoring the paperwork piling up on his desk and telling command to kiss his ass.

It helps that he ranks almost everyone on G-5, the base commander included. A short, thin woman in jeans with her captain’s insignia attached to her jacket, she’s waiting for them at the docks. As soon as the gangway is down she approaches and salutes; Smoker hopes she’s not going to be one of those.

“Commodore,” she says when he reaches her, the movement of her mouth working the scar tissue bisecting her lower lip into interesting shapes. “Welcome to the New World. I’m Cavallo.”

He jerks his chin at Tashigi. “Ensign Tashigi, my second. You’re in charge here?”

Her jaw tightens and her chin lifts, exposing another scar on her throat – newer, pinker, X-shaped. It looks deliberate: someone’s made mark, not a slash taken in battle. “Yes, sir.”

She’s obviously not happy about having her territory invaded by a ranking officer, but he doesn’t have a reason or the inclination for pissing matches. “I’m not here to take over your command, Cavallo. On paper I’ll be attached to this base, but I won’t be around much otherwise.”

He looks around at Tashigi. “Initiate standard procedures for resupply and refit, then meet me at base.” His eye catches on the pair watching him owl-eyed from the top of the gangway. “Bring the rookies with you.” He turns back to Cavallo without waiting for a response. “Let’s walk.”

She falls in beside him, keeping pace easily, the line of her shoulders less rigid than it was. “I… apologize for my attitude. Sir.”

“Don’t. It’s your command. And drop the sir.”

“Yes, sir.” He growls wordlessly at her and she grins back, the scar giving her mouth a gamine, attractive twist. “Sorry. I’m a little defensive. You’re my second ranking tenant in less than a month. I was starting to wonder if high command was looking to replace me.”

It’s afternoon, early afternoon, and the wharves are busy. Noisy. Smoker only shouts when he’s got a reason to. He waits for the rumble of a fish cart to die away, starts to pull two cigars out. “Second?”

She looks surprised that he doesn’t know. “Admiral Sakazuki makes berth here when he’s in the area. He’s here now.”

He did know. He’d just conveniently forgotten. He pushes the cigars back into their loops. “Where?”

“This time of day? The east training yard, probably.” She glances at him. “Do you want me to take you?”

He squints through midday glare at the hulking shape of the base rising in the near distance; it looks like almost every other marine base on every island he’s ever been to. Regulation layout. “No need. I can find my own way.”

Out of the corner of his eye he sees her mouth curve up again. “I’m sure you can.”

\--

“You look like shit,” he says almost twenty minutes later. “That old man nearly had you. Would have if you hadn’t had someone shove a pike through him first.”

He takes his time re-lighting his cigars. Blows out a mouthful of smoke along with an honorific that probably sounds as sincere as Cavallo’s did earlier, “Sir.”

Sakazuki’s head is bent. With the ball cap pulled down over his eyes, Smoker can’t even see his profile. “Kuzan told me you’d be coming. I said I didn’t think you were that stupid.”

“Kuzan knows me pretty well.”

“And I don’t.” The shadow lifts slightly; there’s something like amusement under it. Maybe even enjoyment. “That going to be a problem?”

“Up to you. I doubt either of us will be around enough for it to matter.” There’s no good way to say it and he never did learn how to beat around that kind of bush. “About that. I need someone I can’t beat to train with. You’re the only thing on this island that qualifies.”

It takes him a moment to place the grinding sound coming out of Sakazuki as a laugh. It blends easily with the scrape of steel on steel coming from long rectangles of sand and grass.

Sakazuki’s face is turned in his direction. Maybe he’s looking at Smoker. Maybe he’s watching the kids going at each other behind him. “You’ve got more brass than the admiralty,” he says. “What makes you think you’d be enough of a fight to interest me?”

“I don’t.” He drops his cigars; they don’t taste right anymore. Grinds them out under his boot and crosses his arms. “Your decision. I’ve got a week in port. Take your time.”

He’s not sure, but he thinks there’s a smirk under the cap brim. Sakazuki shrugs his coat off. Stands up, leaving the coat on the bench and walks, hand in his pocket, to the middle of the courtyard. He stops a few yards away from Smoker and tugs at his cap. “If you’re in a rush to get your ass handed to you, I don’t mind doing it.”

\--

Their first tour of duty lasts a month too long for Garp’s rookies, not near long enough for Smoker, and just long enough for all of them to get a good idea of what they’re up against. More than long enough to bring in a few large bounties as well as many smaller ones and collect a few more scars.

Tashigi breaks three pairs of glasses and various parts of the ship perfecting techniques she calls geppou and rankyaku; halfway through the tour the damage toll increases sharply after she takes a sword she calls Nidai Kitetsu off a slaver who ate the whip-whip fruit and died via strangulation within his own coils. Smoker isn’t sure why she’s so determined to carry it, but she wears it strapped to her back, Shigure at her hip. He’d swear she spends more time arguing out loud with the damned thing than actually wielding it, but he decides to belay his concern until the day she sticks a hilt between her teeth.

The pink kid (“His name is Coby, sir, I think it hurts his feelings that you don’t use it,” “When the hell did I start caring about feelings?”) proves surprisingly good at finding whatever pirates they happen to be looking for, as well as many others they aren’t looking for, in addition to attracting large amounts of trouble. He’s good in a fight, though, dogged and almost as determined as the rubber brat he idolizes, and Smoker’s not really that surprised to realize he wouldn’t mind adding him to his crew.

The kid with the shades (“Helmeppo, sir, it’s Helmeppo, not hey idiot”) doesn’t have quite as much backbone, but he’s still out there making the effort. And he’ll do damned near anything for the pink kid, including getting between him and an angry rhinocephaloferus, and almost losing his fool head in a face off with one of the dueling Mynas on Barbeddon Island.

He does eventually lose a finger in a sea battle, but considering he’s fought an enormous, twin sabre wielding parrot and won, he’s probably ahead of the game.

Smoker… Smoker does what he’s always done. He chases down criminals. Stretches himself out in all directions, grasping at any pirate who comes within his range; he spreads himself wisp thin across the New World and around his prey, hunts and is hunted, and learns how to fight without his jitte.

And he tries, but he can’t teach himself how not to want it.

\--

“Call that haki? My honored grandmother does better with a frying pan.”

“I’m not one of those hotheaded supernova brats you spend your time chasing. I don’t jump when some asshole pulls my strings.”

“You’re right. You’re not. Most of them have more guts than you ever will.”

“Shut up and fight.”

\--

He does it before he knows what he’s going to do, which is probably why it works.

He doesn’t have time to think. Sakazuki’s fist is dissolving into lava, on a collision course with the woman’s head, and Smoker has just enough time to shove her out of the way and swing the jitte up. He’s as surprised as Sakazuki looks when Sakazuki’s flesh and blood hand slams into the shaft.

Surprise doesn’t last long on either side; Sakazuki moves first, lowering his arm and straightening. He looks at Smoker from under his cap brim and says, “Move.”

Smoker steps back, keeping himself in front of the woman. She’s gasping out her panic behind him, frozen like a lame rabbit watching a fox come toward it. “Are you an idiot? Get lost,” he growls without turning, and there’s another gasp followed by running footsteps.

Sakazuki’s eyes flicker, tracking her, and there’s a memory, something… someone. Looking up at Smoker from under a hat brim, laughter bright and mocking in flame-flicker eyes. That red-orange light is the only thing those other eyes had in common with Sakazuki’s. There’s nothing like amusement here; Sakazuki is just pissed.

“They’re pirates,” he says.

“Kids and women. Locals.” Smoker shoves his jitte back into the harness. He doesn’t use it much anymore, isn’t even sure why he brought it today, but it’s just as well. Running up against Sakazuki looking for the same band of pirates is a damned good reason, even if it is after the fact.

“They’ve made berth here off and on,” he says. “The headwoman here says they don’t stay long or interact much with the villages.”

“They’ve given aid to pirates.”

“This is reconnaissance, not a goddamn buster call.”

“And you’re out of line.” Sakazuki is still staring past Smoker at the place the woman used to be. “You’ll be up on charges if I don’t just kill you for gross insubordination, dereliction of duty, and willful obstruction of justice.”

He pulls his cigars out of his mouth and looks at them—there’s not enough left to bother lighting them again. “Won’t be the first time somebody’s tried.” Killing him or bringing him up on charges. It won’t be the last, either. “Last I checked, eliminating bystanders wasn’t part of regulations.”

The ball cap lifts. “They’re expendable fools. Worthless.”

“They’re human,” Smoker says. “We’re not.” He tosses the stubs away, shoves his hands into his pockets and starts walking back toward the harbor. He’s said his piece and Sakazuki will do what he’s going to do, regardless.

He’s a lot like Kuzan that way. Kuzan and Smoker.

\--

“Use it.”

“No.”

“That was an order, marine, not a request.”

“Fuck you.” But. “Why?”

“You’re logia and you use busoshoku on a seastone weapon. You’ve got an affinity for the fucking thing, which puts you one up on the rest of us. If you’re not a moron you take any advantage you can get, and you’re a punk, not a moron. Use it.”

\--

A year after he left Marineford, maybe for the last time, he puts Sakazuki through three walls and then stands where he lands, lighting his cigars. Waiting. Doesn’t take Sakazuki long to melt his way up out of the debris.

Smoker looks him over: shirt and coat gone, pants wrecked, but the damn ball cap is still there. He says, “Why the fuck are you still hanging around here? They’re almost finished with the new HQ.” He thinks he’d actually like to know.

Sakazuki takes off his cap. Shakes the dirt and gravel out of it and puts it back on. “I think I might get bored if I didn’t have your ass around to kick. Want to try that again, punk?”

Smoker shifts his cigars to the other side of his mouth and rests his jitte on his shoulder. “You sound like Garp. Or me.”

Sakazuki puts him through all the retaining walls standing between them and the harbor. Cavallo pulls him out of the water. Tashigi tries to wrap a towel around him but he snarls at her and stalks away.

He can damn near hear the look they exchange behind his back, but neither of them tries to stop him.

It’s a long, dripping walk back up to base. When he gets there Garp is waiting in his quarters. He’s not sure he wouldn’t prefer the ocean.

\--

He props his jitte against the wall and crosses his arms. Garp stays where he is, seated in Smoker’s arm chair, chewing on rice crackers. It’s too much like watching Straw Hat eat for Smoker’s money. “What happened to retirement?”

At least Garp swallows the cracker in his mouth before answering. Straw Hat would have talked through it. “Eh, I never retired. I just stepped down.”

“Same difference.”

Garp shrugs, snorts, chokes on another cracker. Smoker leans against the wall next to his jitte and watches with interest, waiting to see if the old bastard is actually going to be done in by snack food.

It’s a close thing, but in the end D luck triumphs. Garp chokes and gags, hacks a disgusting wad of phlegm and cracker up and spits it out onto Smoker’s rug. He wipes streaming eyes with the back of his hand, gulps tea and wheezes, “You going to just sit there on your ass and watch me die?”

Smoker reaches for his cigars, sticks two in his mouth and bites down. “Maybe. Probably.”

Garp shouts with rough laughter. “You young punk. If you were one of my officers I’d—”

“If I was,” Smoker interrupts, “I wouldn’t wait for a cracker to finish you off.”

Garp laughs until he’s wheezing again, almost crying. “Damned if I didn’t miss you,” he chokes out between grainy laughs. “Dadan won’t even give me the time of day and there’s no one else in Fūsha who’ll backtalk me. I’d forgotten how boring the Blues are. Can’t understand what those grandkids of mine were always whining about.” His laughter-wet eyes grow distant, almost soft. “Child abuse. Ha! Damned brats…”

He shakes his head and his gaze settles back on Smoker, no softness left anywhere. “I told Sengoku I’d train for them and I will. I’m just doing it on this side of the Red Line.” He finishes off the tea and leans forward, slamming his mug down on the coffee table. “Speaking of training, how are those punks of mine doing? You kick their asses into shape like I told you to?”

“Kicked them, anyway,” Smoker says, digging through his pockets for his lighter. “You here to take them off my hands?”

“That and to hand over your new orders. Told them I’d do it in person since I was coming.” He’s slumped in the chair, watching Smoker with malicious enjoyment and grinning like his spawn. “They’re building a base out on one of the frontier islands, calling it G-6. Sending you and Sakazuki out to make sure it gets built. Maybe push the frontier out a few leagues while you’re at it.”

It’s… not a bad thought. But it came from HQ and he doesn’t want to get tied down again.

“I’m not running another Loguetown,” he says slowly. “Good luck with Sakazuki.”

“He’ll go if he’s bored enough,” Garp says, and stuffs a cracker in his mouth.

Smoker thinks about smiling. Decides digging his lighter out is a better idea. “Maybe.” And maybe he’s just as bored as Sakazuki, but there’s something he doesn’t get. “Where’s this coming from?”

“Mariejois,” Garp says around his mouthful of cracker. “Kong and that new fleet admiral of his.”

Smoker pauses, flame halfway to his cigars. “Kuzan?”

“Turned down the appointment. Kong sent some prick the gorousei approved. Can’t remember his name, but that won’t matter. Big shots who want to make big splashes don’t last long over here.” He snorts a laugh. “Heh. If he pokes his nose out of HQ long enough to mix it up with a few pirates, he’ll make a splash all right.”

Smoker lights up and pulls in smoke. Breathes his disgust out with it, “Morons.”

Garp laughs again. “Yeah, all of them, Kuzan more than the rest. I thought that boy had more guts.” Shaking his head, he sighs and points at his mug. “There’s a pot in the kitchen. Go get an old man something to warm his worn-out bones.”

“You’re not retired anymore,” Smoker says. “Get it yourself.” But he goes, bringing Garp’s tea, a bottle of rum, and a tumbler back with him. He fills Garp’s mug and hands it over, then he sits down on the couch across from him and sets the tea pot and the rum on the coffee table.

Garp empties his mug in two gulps and shoves it over. “Hit me.”

Smoker says, “Don’t think I won’t.” He fills Garp’s mug with rum, then his own glass, and they sit in silence, drinking.

The room is full up with dusk when Garp finally raises his head. He blinks in fading light, squints at Smoker and says, “Hasn’t shown up here yet, has he?”

“No,” Smoker says shortly. He fills his glass again and drinks deeply.

Garp settles back into the chair; sets his mug back down on the table. “That’s all right then,” he says. “Quit hogging that bottle and push it over here.”

\--

Sakazuki meets him in yard three in the same place at the same time he always does when they’re both in port, wearing one of his look-alike suits and his usual surly expression.

The only difference about today, as opposed to any other day he gets his ass kicked by Sakazuki, is the set of holes in the retaining walls, now swarming with workmen, and Garp, out on the field shouting at and pounding on everyone within range including his rookies, who look overjoyed to be getting beat up on and yelled at.

Smoker lights his cigars. Sakazuki crosses his arms, and then they ignore each other in favor of watching the show.

They don’t get much of one. It takes a few seconds but Garp still has good instincts. He suddenly stops yelling mid-sentence and turns like a hound on a scent, looking around until he sees them. He raises a fist and shouts, “I thought so! You brats take your logia shit someplace else! Don’t go putting any more holes in my base!”

Sakazuki’s cap tilts in Smoker’s direction.

“Fine by me,” Smoker says. He snaps his lighter shut and blows a cloud that’s mostly cigar smoke. “West side, the big hill?” Sakazuki’s cap moves again. Smoker says, “I’ll meet you there,” and billows up over the wall.

He gets there first, but not by much. When Sakazuki boils up out of the ground he’s been standing on the grassy, flat-topped hill for maybe a minute. “Garp tell you?” he asks.

Sakazuki’s cap brim turns his way. “They’re pushing the line out. Looks like I won’t be getting bored anytime soon.”

Smoker pulls his jitte slowly out of the harness. “Looks like.” He raises the jitte, but Sakazuki seems to have something on his mind besides fighting.

“You followed Dragon’s son here from East Blue. You know him.”

Smoker’s lip curls. “I know he’s Straw Hat Luffy. I know he’s a shit storm all by himself, whoever spawned him.”

Sakazuki raises his head, tipping it back far enough to expose his face. If bared teeth are the definition of a smile, he’s smiling. “Whoever gets to him first,” he says.

“I will,” Smoker says. “Said it yourself. I know him.” He attacks without warning or quarter. Shortly after that, the hill stops being a hill.

Much later, Garp laughs himself into a hernia while Cavallo tells them it’s a good thing they’re transferring out. If not, she says, she’d have kicked their shitty devil fruit using asses off her island herself.

\--

Tashigi turns away from the marching line of shackled pirates, three of them seastone-heavy devil fruit users, and looks a question at him.

“You know the procedure better than I do,” he says. “Take them to the fort, I’ll meet you there.”

He expects her surprise. He usually supervises the transfer of the more dangerous devil fruit prisoners himself and one of these is logia—oil, which was tricky and disgusting to fight.

“Sir, are you certain that’s a good idea? They’re expecting you.”

He slides the jitte into its harness and looks back down at her. “You know how to conduct an inspection, don’t you, Ensign?”

“I believe so, sir.”

She has a way of making an answer sound like a question. He’ll have to do something about that one of these days. “Get it done,” he says. “I’m going for a walk.”

Her sighed, “Yes, sir,” follows him down the street. He shoves his hands in his jeans pockets, hunches his shoulders and keeps walking.

Someone shouts at him, “Watch where you’re going, asshole!” and he swerves around a man on a bike, steps over a beggar and turns right into another narrow, twisting alley, not really caring where it goes, only that it does go somewhere. The tight-packed streets of the warehouse district aren’t what he’s looking for, not what he wants, but at the moment they’re all he has—they’ll have to do.

He wants space and air. Needs to be hunting, tracking something down, but right now the best he can manage is to keep moving until the urge to snarl and snap and _lunge_ at every furtive movement made near him goes away.

He’s been grounded too long. Stuck on G-6 with a bunch of half green marines, and Sakazuki took his sweet time putting back into port. Smoker can’t really blame him—neither of them likes being tied to the base—but a deal is a deal and a month is a month. This is Smoker’s month to be in the field, and Sakazuki cut into it by a week.

If HQ doesn’t send them the base commander they requested soon, someone’s going to die.

Of course, that could always be the underlying intent. Send a strong, mad dog out to the frontier along with a stronger, even madder dog and hope they finish each other off and take a lot of pirates with them. It sounds like something the assholes in Mariejois would come up with.

It’s not a new thought, either, not for them or him; some part of him even finds it amusing. Another part thinks turning Straw Hat loose on the new HQ is a great idea. But most of him is just too close to doing what he did in Loguetown, taking off without leave and not looking back.

Sakazuki is close to doing the same thing, though, and then G-6 would be rudderless, prey to pirates who think they’re strong enough to challenge someone like Teach. Smoker’s sense of duty isn’t dead yet. He came out here to carve a foothold for justice, and he’ll do it, one way or another.

Getting a foothold in what’s always been a pirate stronghold doesn’t happen overnight, though, and marine resources and manpower are currently limited. Which means cooperating with local law enforcement on marine friendly islands and using whatever facilities they have available. And in the New World, marine friendly islands aren’t that common; they’ve been chased off more of them than they’ve been welcomed onto.

But people are people everywhere, and most people just want to live quietly. Some New World islands see the marines as their best hope for peace, and with their goodwill, temporary outposts have sprung up around towns with decent prison facilities, giving the navy that necessary foothold.

As far as containment goes, Zhabalah is one of the best. It’s situated on Windbreak, a large island with several other heavily populated cities; Zhabalah itself is a port town located near an abandoned fort equipped with seastone cells, and fortunately, the mayor is willing to let the navy keep a garrison there in return for protection from those pirates who are ready to take any prosperous island as a gold plated invitation.

It’s why he’s here now—Windbreak is the second island out from G-6 and his ship was closest when the distress signal went live.

At the time he told himself it was just as well. Pirates needing capture, garrison due for inspection, with a show of force to impress the natives on the side. And he might as well be back in East Blue.

It’s local politics mixed in with marine policy, everything he hated about Loguetown and then some. Every second he spends here feels like a step backwards; like he’s still stuck on G-6, waiting for Sakazuki to get his ass back so he can leave. Like he never made it out of East Blue at all.

And now Tashigi is up at the fort, taking his place and shouldering his duties while he crawls the backstreets of Zhabalah instead of crawling out of his skin.

The smoke wants him to. Is trying to make him think he needs to, but he’s made a habit of not needing anything. He’s not going to add another crutch, not even when it’s a piece of himself on the other end of his need.

He doesn’t regret eating his fruit—there’d be no point even if he did—but he won’t let his smoke drive his actions. Won’t let it control him.

Control. That’s what it all comes down to and he’s too close to losing all kinds of it, and this city—

Is a city. Too many people. He stops walking and lifts his head. Gets a look at where he is.

It’s another side street, not as cramped as before. Cleaner, with high stone and brick buildings on either side and no human detritus mumbling in the shadows. It’s also empty, which is all he wanted to know.

He could go smoke and let his glove fall. He peels it roughly off with his teeth; wants to know if he can still scrape his skin that way. He can’t.

The wall closest to him is stone. It crumbles around his fist like sand and there’s not enough goddamn _pain_ , there isn’t—

He isn’t alone.

Two women carrying bags of fruit as colorful as their headscarves pass him, talking in low tones and glancing at him out of the corners of their eyes. Smoker waits until they’re gone to lift his fist. Smoke immediately rises to fill raw, scraped skin.

And he can’t feel a damned thing, not even when he pulls his glove back on over half-healed scars.

He can still hear, though, can see the outlines of more people, coming and going around him. No one stops or gives him more than a passing glance, and he starts walking again, following the stream away from shadowed quiet out into color and noise.

There’s some kind of fair going on; the main thoroughfare is packed with people and booths; the air is thick with sweat and perfumes and grilling meat, and the sound of people talking, laughing, arguing, carrying on with their lives swells around him, clogging up his ears and throwing him more off balance than he already is.

The sensory flood is overwhelming and immediate, and distracting enough that he almost misses it when it happens.

Nudge and bump. Practiced and smooth amid shoving shoulders and jabbing elbows. If he was anyone else, he wouldn’t have noticed, but he’s still himself. Still that always hungry, pissed off kid running through Loguetown’s dirty, pirate-ridden streets. Taking what he needed when he needed it from whoever was stupid and careless enough to let him.

This kid is better than he was but not quite as good as one of the other kids he used to run with—a pink-haired, self proclaimed princess with a gutter mouth and magic fingers.

Hina’s probably laughing at him right now. Commodore Smoker, terror of the Blues, picked clean of his wallet by a street brat no higher than his hip. _Poetic justice, Smoker-kun?_

He’s tall enough and he’s looking for it, and he catches the human ripple that’s the kid’s wake moving away. Sees him pop out of the crowd and nip around a corner, quick flash of dark hair and tanned skin, and Smoker’s already moving.

Waits until he’s out of the crowd before he goes smoke, then he streams up the side of the closest building, billowing out over the rooftops, tracking the kid’s passage from overhead.

It makes sense when he thinks about it. Strangers always make the best targets and he’s not wearing his jacket. There’s nothing on him to identify him as a marine, and since he’s not well known here, it’s not surprising that the street kids don’t know to leave well enough alone if they don’t want to end up dangling upside down from the roof of the local cop shop by way of a strand of smoke.

He’s not sure that’s what’s going to happen this time. Not certain what he intends to do. Get his wallet back, yes. Probably scare the kid straight as well, but that’s about it; he’s almost grateful to the brat for pulling something, giving him an excuse to do what he’s been itching to for over a month. The chase is what’s important; right now it’s all he cares about.

Until he drops down from a roof, turns a corner and sees exactly what it is he’s been chasing.

There are eight of them. He’s no judge of age when it comes to kids, but it looks like a range of five to fifteen, all of them dirty, their clothes ragged around the edges. They stare at him out of huge eyes, the shortest of them hanging on to the second-shortest’s hand, the rest of them clustered around the one who stole his wallet.

He stares back, his mind blank. He’s been in a lot of strange situations before, but this—

It’s not strange. It’s the way most of the world works. Unfortunately. He’s about to tell them to keep the damn wallet and leave when the tallest (oldest?) darts out in front and suddenly there’s a wall of flame between him and them.

He goes smoke. It’s automatic reaction on his part and he sees her eyes widen in response behind the barrier of her fire. Flame licks across her shoulders and face. Ripples through her hair, lifting it up like red leaves in autumn wind, then dying down, leaving her human, or the closest thing to it she has left.

The fire net dwindles but doesn’t die; he pulls himself back into his body, settling a few feet away and staring at the girl through her flame.

Red hair and grey eyes, dark brown skin. Jagged white lines ride both cheekbones, one barely missing her left eye. On her upper arm more scars show through her torn sleeve, deep and pink, line after line of them. Crosshatched as though someone methodically erased the skin there.

The skin or whatever was on it. The scarred patch is about the right size for a tenryubito’s tattoo. Her eyes say she’ll gut then torch anyone who even thinks about touching her.

She’s too damn young and way too skinny. She’s scarred and scared and angry and she’s fire.

And he didn’t know, didn’t see her coming. She’s nothing he knows. Nothing anything in him recognizes.

But she recognizes him. Both who and what he is. She knows she probably can’t take him but she’s going to fight him anyway. It’s there in her eyes and her flame, the way it jitters and flares and spurts. It’s in her stance and the way she’s between him and the rest of the kids.

It wouldn’t do him any good to tell her he won’t hurt them. She wouldn’t believe him. None of them would.

All he can do is shove his hands into his pockets and say, “Teach your brats to be more careful of their marks.” See her pupils blow out, black rimmed in orange gold red, just before he turns around and walks out of the alley. Walks away.

Forgets he was ever there.

\--

The snap of his lighter opening is overloud in his silent cabin. Flame flares up, dancing shadows over darkened walls. Shudders and shakes weird shapes across berth and desk and floor.

Dies fast, snuffed out by his smoke thumb.

It’s a lot harder to kill memory and he’s got too much of it, more than he expected and clearer than he likes.

He remembers pausing outside the Spice Bean for no good reason. Something made him stop. The trail of people leaving. The tone of their conversation. Something. He saw the tattoo after the fact. The rest…

He hadn’t known. Hadn’t even considered what it would feel like. Not until he hurled smoke at fire, felt it reach out for him in turn. Wrapping around him, twisting into his smoke. Pulling him in and up and showing him—

Something unimagined. Unneeded, unwanted, had never had before. Hasn’t since. God damn it.

He was standing right there in the plaza. He watched Sakazuki’s fist melt through the kid’s spine and abdomen. If he’d been in the Blues he thinks he’d still have known.

“Damn fool.” He doesn’t know who or what he’s saying it to. Who he’s trying to convince. There’s no one here but him and his smoke and his brain that won’t shut the fuck up for five seconds. And footsteps outside his door, going past, pausing… coming back. Tashigi.

“Sir?”

“Come ahead,” he says, tossing the lighter down without lighting his cigars. Switching on the lamp.

She doesn’t come in, doesn’t move beyond the port. Just stands in it, looking awkward. “You wanted me to tell you when the pose set. It just did.”

He drops his cigars into the ashtray. He’s not going to light them and for once he doesn’t feel the need to bite down on something. “Who’s still ashore?”

She’s frowning, her eyes slightly unfocussed as she thinks. “Timms and Yanick, Marquette. Hawass. I think Zherveyn, Judd and Ieyoshi are still out as well.” Her worry lines are too deep. She’s only… he doesn’t know how old she is. Why doesn’t he know that?

“Do you want me to recall them?” she asks. She doesn’t look like she thinks it’s a good idea, but he knows she’ll do it if he tells her to.

“Alert me when we’ve got the full complement,” he says. “Let third shift know we’re sailing as soon as we’ve got it.”

She doesn’t have either of her swords. Her hands look strange without one, held open in front of her. Almost helpless. “Sir.”

“Problem, Ensign?” It’s unfair. He does know that, and he doesn’t like himself much right now. But he’s not always fair. He’s human.

Sometimes.

“No, sir,” Tashigi says quietly. “I’ll tell them.” She starts to turn, hair sliding forward, hiding her eyes.

He says her name before she can leave. She looks back at him over her shoulder; he can’t see anything but polite inquiry on her face. “Belay that. I’ll tell them. You’re off duty. Get some rest.”

She opens her mouth to protest, but it’s automatic and he can see when she stops herself. When she changes what she’s going to say. “Thank you, sir. I appreciate that. Good night.”

He makes a noise ambiguous enough to be taken for whatever she cares to make of it. He doesn’t stop her this time when she leaves.

He turns the lamp off again and sits for a while, watching the shadowy ebb and flow of the tide move across the walls. Then he gets up and pulls his coat on. Tugs on his gloves and shoves his hands into his pockets.

He leaves the jitte behind his chair. Leaves the lighter on the desktop, sitting on the stack of paperwork he’s not going to do. Maybe tomorrow he’ll burn it. Maybe the day after. Or next week. He doesn’t have to decide now.

He’s got time.


End file.
